


All in a Blur

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Future, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-12
Updated: 2005-01-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Justin comes home to Brian's funeral.





	All in a Blur

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

You are still angry as you slide the heavy metal door, shaking the snow on your shoulders on the hard work floor. Angry at him! For not coming to visit all these months. Finding one excuse or another – Ted’s incompetence, or Gus’s third-grade play; the image of Brian Kinney going to a school play brings a faint smile to your face. But then you remember why you are here, and your anger comes back with full force. Angry at him! For taking his own life. Then again, somehow you always knew. An old Brian Kinney was the hardest thing for you to imagine. “A 40th birthday bash,” Michael had said. “He finished what he started 10 years ago.” 

It was a calm morning at the beach. Covered in a thick layer of sunscreen, you were trying to sketch the sandpipers running around the waves, wishing you could slow down the time, so that you could capture the swift movements of these busy birds. You had only answered the phone after it rang for the umpteenth time, and it became obvious that the caller would not stop. First it did not make any sense.

“Brian… The Vette… It’s gone… He’s gone…” Michael was babbling between sobs, as if talking to himself. You tried to get some more information out of him, but it was hopeless. Then you heard Ben take the phone away from Michael, “It’s Brian. He crashed his car to the side of his building last night, at 50 miles per hour. Police said he was high, and was killed instantly.”

The rest of the day was a blur until you found yourself in Debbie’s arms, trying too hard to breathe.

The funeral was another blur. Not because of the cold burning your eyes, but because of all the people trying to show sympathy, even though you did not need any. Yes, they all meant well, but they were crowding you. Lindsay even asked you why you weren’t crying. “I’m not some little faggot,” you had replied, maybe a little too harshly. All of a sudden, you remembered repeating the same lines all those years ago, only to be distracted again by Gus holding up a rose for you to put over the casket.

Taking your shoes off in the puddle of melted snow they created, you walk inside, and almost collapse on the sofa with the weight of all those years of longing on your shoulders. “Yearning” you correct yourself, feeling like a seventeen year old boy you once were. The candles are arranged on the coffee table, all burnt away, the melted wax rippling over the votives. 

Maybe it is the absence of light in the long-gone candles, but you feel a sudden chill, and get up to get a blanket from the bedroom closet. The tidiness behind the doors impresses you, even though you expected it, remembering all too well, how Brian used to freak out when he saw your clothes all scattered around the bedroom floor. You reach to the top shelf and try to pull the old thick blanket, thankful that Brian did not throw it away. No matter how expensive, his duvets were never warm enough for you.

You are surprised when your hands touch the corners of a cardboard box. You know Brian never keeps – “kept” you correct yourself again – his shoes in their boxes, lining them neatly under his suits instead, all filled with those fancy shoe-shaping thingies. So the presence of this box is a mystery. 

With the guilt and curiosity of a child going through his parents drawers, you slowly pull the box out. It is bigger than a shoe box, and features a red and green tartan design. You first think maybe it is a forgotten Christmas present. But then you remember that this is Brian, and a Christmas present seems as out of place as a live reindeer.

You sit on the bed, and slowly lift the cover of the box, as if you were afraid that a jack-in-the-box might just pop-up. But no jack-in-the-box pops up. Instead you find yourself staring at the Turkey shaped hat Gus wore in the Thanksgiving play. Under that, lays another copy of the picture Lindsay had sent to you in Thanksgiving, the kids and their parents proudly posing at the camera after the show, Brian’s façade of boredom barely hiding the joy only you can see in his eyes.

Then you see a pair of unused tickets to L.A., dated September, the same week as Gus’s birthday, and you remember asking him to join you on your 10th coming-out anniversary party. “I don’t do anniversaries,” was his brief answer, before you heard the phone click off.

The red and yellow shirt with the “Eastway Kings” logo doesn’t surprise you though. You remember the night you had seen him wearing it, and his response to your question, “It was his. Thought I would salute the old bastard in the only way we could have connected.” He had come home that night, freezing, but more peaceful than he had ever been that whole week. And that was the first night he let you hold him in bed, the first night you felt a non-sexual bond between the two of you.

The last item on the box is an upside down frame, barely fitting the box. You put the things that piled up on your lap to the side of the bed, and turn the box over, trying to get the frame out without breaking the cardboard. After a few pats on the bottom, the frame slides out slowly. You turn it over, and come face to face with a naked Brian, in a comfortable sleep, his beautiful cock gracefully peeking from under the covers. 

You remember the night you drew it, and how amazing it felt to be in his life. And how you thought you had a secret admirer somewhere out there, someone hoping to make millions once you became a famous artist.

An animal-like shriek tears you away from your memories, and you feel the screaming person’s pain deep in your bones, and are surprised at the way your throat hurts. You start shaking uncontrollably, realizing you still do not have that blanket over your shoulders. Your eyes become blurry again, but you can still see the drops splattering on the glass frame anyway. And that’s when you notice the tears streaming down your cheeks…


End file.
